Wicked Nights With a Lover (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #3)(8)

“Aye, maybe a tap of something else,” a man crudely suggested.

“Well, Courtland there can certainly deliver ‘er that, just ask Sally over there!”

“Aye, and if he won’t, maybe I will!”

Marguerite’s cheeks burned, perfectly mortified at the rough remarks.

The brute twisted so that she was no longer grasping his arm anymore. Instead he was holding onto her.

She squeaked. “How did you—”

Her words were lost as he hauled her close, their bodies flush, his face—handsome, in a rough-hewn, carved-from-stone sort of way—only inches from her own.

She swallowed, fighting the sudden thickness in her throat at the abrupt change in position, shaken to find the tables so easily turned … shaken that he would press himself so intimately against her.

Everything seemed to slow, the air crackling as the moment stretched out and she found herself in the grip of such a virile, dangerous man. Courtland. Ironic, she supposed, as there was nothing courtly about him. Certainly not in his chilling black eyes.

She glared down her nose at the hand on her arm, gulping at the sight of his bloody fist—the cut, raw knuckles flexing over her. Her stomach dipped and twisted.

Her gaze flicked back to his face. His eyes flashed dark obsidian down at her, the demon eyes a startling contrast to his golden hair. The sight undid her, robbed the last of her composure. It was this, everything, those last moments with Madame Foster when Marguerite accepted that the woman might not be a complete fraud after all. All of it sought to unravel her, take her apart bit by bit until she was naught but tiny motes of dust on the air.

She addressed the scoundrel with a hiss. “Unhand me, you wretch!” She swung her free arm around, her palm cracking solidly with his cheek. The blow carried more force than she suspected herself capable.

Her handprint stood stark white on his swarthy cheek. For a moment, the crowd stilled, all laughter and jeers dying. Then a whispering murmur broke out over the crowd.

She caught a snatch of words, a fractured phrase. Dead woman.

Irrational laughter bubbled up from her chest. She swallowed it back lest everyone deem her well and truly mad. She had no wish to be carted off to Bedlam. That’s not where she imagined spending her final days.

“Wretch,” he sneered, a questioning ring to his voice. His lips curled back to display a flash of shockingly white teeth. She blinked. Superb teeth for one of Society’s dregs to possess. Even his speech did not mark him an uneducated lout given to thrashing helpless souls in the streets.

His fingers tightened around her wrist until she feared the bones would snap. She winced. From the corner of her eye, she watched as the hapless creature he’d beaten scampered away, disappearing into the crowd. At least there was that.

His gaze flicked to the retreating figure, then back to her. “You let him get away.”

“You’ve already beaten him to an inch of his life … or was it your goal to kill him?” she bit out.

His angry gaze slid over her, insolent and furious.

“What concern is it of a fine lady like you? Strayed a bit far from Bond Street, haven’t you, sweetheart?”

“I’ve no wish to see an innocent man murdered before my eyes.”

He thrust his face so close she thought their noses would bump. Startled, she pulled back as far as she could, craning her neck at an awkward angle.

“Innocent?” His mouth twisted cruelly and he laughed, the sound rough and deep, raising the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck. Even with that laughter, he looked furious, dangerous. Whipping his head about, he glared at their audience. “What are you all looking at? Show’s over!”

Then she was moving, hauled after him by the wrist. A wrist she was certain would bear bruises later.

She dug in her heels, but it did no good. She moved, tripping after him. “Where are you taking me?”

He ignored her, his long strides taking them past Madame Foster’s shop to the corner of the street. He waved a hand. His whistle pierced the air. Almost immediately, a hack swung to a stop beside them.

“Go home,” he snapped as he yanked open the door and practically threw her inside. “Where you can delude yourself about the innocence of others.”

Delude herself? Sprawled on the floor of the hack, her legs tangled awkwardly in her twisted skirts and petticoats, she blinked up at the stranger’s fierce countenance and even fiercer words … and had the strangest feeling she was caught in the midst of a dream. Or rather a nightmare.

First Madame Foster, and now this dark angel glowering down at her and speaking to her with such rancor and condemnation. Would this horrid day never end?

“The next time you visit St. Giles, don’t interfere in matters in which you know nothing. Not if you hope to return home as lily-white as when you arrived.”

She snorted inelegantly. “The scene I just witnessed required little explanation.”

Dark heat flashed in his gaze. He leaned inside the hack, angling his imposing body over hers like a finely stretched bow, taut with barely checked energy.

His fingers curled around the modest neckline of her bodice, pulling her up by his grip on the fabric. She gasped, certain he meant to rip her gown from her body and ravish her.

“That innocent man,” he hissed, “very nearly beat a woman to death. A working woman, the likes you would cross the street to avoid.” He scoured her with a contemptuous glare. “A woman with no family to protect her, no husband, and a small child to feed. An innocent child.”